


“Don’t take any wooden nickels!”

by fkmoore



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Character Death, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Gen, Les Mis Across History, Les Misérables AU, M/M, Multi, Other, Violent Deaths, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fkmoore/pseuds/fkmoore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Les Mis AU thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for dumb mistakes, this used to be in first person.  
> Character ref at the end.

Chicago was a great city if you had the money, a decent one if you didn’t, and it was a real bad one if you’d borrowed it from somebody else. When Joseph arrived, he didn’t much know where he fit in the scheme of things, he wasn’t from here. In 1870 the Bellouard family had upped and left France and planted themselves in Louisiana, the only place in America they had known spoke French, after all, they had to make the move easy on themselves. Fifty years later here he was, tearing himself away from the Southern roots and making his way to the city. The big city called and there was nothing he could do but follow the Siren's song. After all, there was only so much one could write about the trees, grass and grandparents on back porches.

        A writer was an interesting commodity, it seemed, and he often found himself amongst the most finely dressed people, each trying to secure themselves immortality in the written word, and each being sufficiently dull enough for him to make a false promise that he would, in fact, write about his evenings with them. They paid him off for that, buying his food, his drinks, some even aiding in his accommodation, there was no doubt that he was grateful and did write things about them. Without their help he'd still be in the single room above the butcher's shop. As hard as he had tried to avoid trouble, though, it had come to find him. Crime was ripe and he was a new, rising face. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

        He was roughed up a little bit by some nameless faces, they’d growled something about information and yadda yadda, things he hadn’t paid much attention to, after all he had nothing to tell them. He couldn’t help but think they were simply bored young men looking for a fight, but they wouldn't find one with him. Then then they all went on their way.

-

        His face was bruised, purple, black and blue under his eye and around his cheekbone, and naturally he’d thought about trying to cover it up but hadn’t the time. After dressing he was rushed out of his rooms and into the night, a woman’s arm through his, whisking him through the glittering streets and to one of the clubs they had often passed but never visited. It was expensive, too expensive for his below-the-breadline budget, and he was nervous as soon as they entered. The floor was a smooth, dark wood, so clean and polished he could almost see himself in its shine, there were windows in the place, covered with a light lace, a stage, musician, people dancing, enjoying themselves, champagne was flowing. The city’s mobsters were here. The crème du la crème of Chicago society.

        He was in a suit, yes, with a small, black bow-tie and shimmering cuff links, but he had not a penny to his name. If one looked closer it was easy to tell, the cuff links were made of glass, not crystal or diamond, the suit was worn, the hem of the trousers frayed some, the elbows of the jacket thinning and the bow-tie, if he were honest, was more of a faded charcoal than the stark blackness of the men around him. He felt so horribly out of place he had a mind to turn and run.

        The woman, her name was Gisele Malbranche, whispered to him and pointed out a man as they sat at a table downstairs—she was a nice girl, a girl of the night, and had taken to Joseph because they both spoke French, though according to her mine was bastardised—for she was from France itself and him missing France by generations. He was sitting upstairs with other men. He was glorious. Blonde hair and the most dazzling blue eyes, Joseph was awestruck, the man was so very alluring that Joseph’s life seemed wasted and he was at a loss for words. _His_ suit was expensive—but unlike the rest of them it was not all black, it was a dark grey, a red tie and a red waistcoat with cufflinks, he was almost certain, were made of ruby—and the champagne he was drinking was the top of the line. Though, he had seen him before, little did Gisele know, he doubt she cared, many times from across the room, and each time he had looked sad, as he did now. He had pages dedicated to him—he was embarrassed to admit that to himself. Joseph had long ago found this Apollo-like muse.

        Joseph wanted to meet him. He wanted to stop this seemingly obsessive stalking routine he had gotten himself into but suddenly he was cripplingly self-conscious. As Gisele was pulling him to stand and towards that table he could not speak to object. Why now? Why today? Why when he had the shadows of that bruise on his face, the scrapes on his knuckles and palms? Joseph hated her. Maybe she knew them. Joseph’s face was red and his stomach was churning, heart beating a thousand times a second, a hum in his chest. And there he was being introduced to this God of a man. He wanted to kill her, he could almost imagine killing her as she spoke to them.

_'Sorry to interrupt sirs,' She drawled it in a way that was only endearing when she did, sleazy from anybody else, 'but this is his friend, Mister Joseph Bellouard. He's a writer. From the south.'_

        Gisele looked at him with a glint of knowing in her eyes, a flash of something behind them that made Joseph even angrier with her, but the men were waiting on him. He was terrified, his fingers clenched into a fist in his pocket, his throat seemed swollen and he knew it was over. His muse would die and this man would not be the God that he had dreamt he would be.

_For a writer he’s not very good with his words , _somebody at the table said scathingly, and that brought him back into full consciousness. His hand slipped out of his pocket and the music stopped for a moment, the blaring Jazz petering out, and Joseph smiled, attempting to cover the shock of the stranger’s words. He shook hands with each of the three men as one of them motioned to each, stating their names, and then _him._

        ‘And, last but not least, Mr Scott Burke.’

_Scott Burke_. The name swam around his head, making him swoon, making him giddy.

        'It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Burke,’ Joseph said, taking his hand.

        Even his name rolled off the tongue, enthralled the mind _Scott Burke_. There was just something about it. The skin of his hand was so horribly soft, too. Up close he smelled of musk and an added dash of sweetness that he couldn’t quite place. Joseph wished for Scott never to speak. For there must have been a flaw, a dangerous flaw, in him; maybe he liked to kick dogs or find each and every way to skin a cat.

        With a short, and mainly ignored, introduction, the music started again, a pretty girl in sequins tap-tap-tapping her way across the stage to the band's fast-paced music. Joseph was in two minds by then, some part of him wanted Scott Burke to disregard their meeting and go back to being the mysterious man he ought to be, but another part wanted him to be the beautiful, interested man that Joseph had dreamt he would be. The few seconds that passed in relative quiet, and mild interest in the dancing girl, seemed to drag for an awkwardly long time, but then he spoke, eyes moving lazily between Gisele and Joseph.

        'Why don't you two join me at the bar for a drink, I'm sure these gentlemen won't mind.’

        Joseph could tell he was from Chicago, the accent was thick and heavy, almost how he and his friends had made fun of it back home. Gisele shrieked beside him and loudly declined Scott’s generous offer, she was forcing the two of them together, and Joseph didn't know why but he certainly didn't complain—he still fancied she knew how much he’d like to kill her for forcing him into such an embarrassing situation. She tottered off and wasn't seen until the end of the night when she'd gained a hundred dollars and two bottles of champagne—nobody ever quite knew if she had stolen her money or earned it.

        Scott and Joseph stood at the bar together and he made small talk, he'd bought the drinks and Joseph, with no money in any of his tattered pockets, barely sipped at it. He was trying to make the glass last longer than it ought to, afraid of asking for more. Scott, however, didn't seem to notice and the younger man was too caught up in watching the way his fingers stretched before they wrapped around the glass and the faint prints left behind when he took his hand away. Joseph didn't realise that he was grinning and staring so intently at him until he caught sight of himself in the mirrors behind the bar. 

 

        'You know, Joey—you don't mind if he call you that, do you?—you _can_ drink up. All the coppers worth anything are here tonight, too. They always are.'

        He laughed nervously in response, looking around for these so-called men of the law, and he was right. The man he’d seen in uniform not four hours ago was propping himself up on the bar just five people away. Still Joseph didn't drink, the blond turned to him with lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed,

        'You do drink, dontcha?'

        'Mm, yes, yeah, it's not that, I just—I haven't got much to my name, you know? Gotta savour it.'

        Scott rolled his eyes at him and slipped a hand into his pocket—his sleeve rolled up ever so slightly and Joseph saw the unmistakable shimmer of a Cartier watch around his wrist—and out came a wad of green, the top note was a hundred and he could only assume the rest were too. With a wink over the rim of his glass and a small smirk, Scott put it all back, hiding it away from greedy eyes. It would have been rude to ignore the obvious hint, and he certainly did not want to be rude—his parents would have told him to sip regardless, well they’d have told him not to drink in the first place. The champagne bubbled and fizzed as it went down, he felt the tickle at the back of his throat and laughed, and the other man followed. Champagne, he could only imagine, was not the best of alcohols to be swallowing all in one. Both then with empty glasses Scott slipped the barman one of the notes in his pocket and clapped him on the shoulder.

        'I like to help the scrubs out, see, Joey—'

        Joseph coughed then and looked at him. The swamps of his home had not been kind to him and the Chicago slang had changed beyond what he’d read in the books and been told by the old man that loved nothing more than getting out of Louisiana. Whether the cough was from the tingle of champagne or the assumption of what he meant was unclear.

        'Help the what?’ He asked, eyebrows furrowed.

        'The scrubs, dingy, you. Poor students. You are a student, aren't you?'

        'Um, no, just a writer.'

        Scott laughed at him and pushed another glass of bubbles towards his new, young companion, he had switched to drinking whiskey now and Joseph was more than glad he hadn't bought one for him, too. The smell of the amber liquid made his head spin and he knew he’d be on the floor after a glass or two of the _strong stuff._

        'Well then, no wonder you've got no bread. You gotta get a job if you wanna survive in Chicago, kid.'

        To be honest, Joseph hadn't thought about getting a job, it hadn't even crossed his mind. Gisele had paid for most of his things since arriving, an old lady had paid for his room at a hotel for the last month. He made the most of it before she decided to cut him off. Joseph hadn't thought about any of that until now, he took another sip of the champagne and shrugged a shoulder—he'd been lucky this long, he couldn't imagine it ending. He’d even found himself a nice room, a spare room in a family house, it had its own bathroom, it was cosy and comfortable enough.

        'Like what?' Joseph inquired.

        'Well, he don't know. What can you do?' Scott was pushing him to talk, it seemed, and talk, about himself, he didn’t quite want to. As he spoke he leaned over the bar and grasped a bottle of champagne by the neck with one hand and handed it over, then he took the whiskey.

        The barman didn't bat an eyelid, and he beckoned Joseph to follow him towards an empty table. It hadn't been empty as they approached, but it seemed the sight of the blonde did not only mesmerise Joseph. Men stood and vacated their seats for him and women stared and their husbands did the same, he suppose he should have felt some sort of gratitude for Scott allowing him, bruised and frayed, at his side, but he was too consumed with fascination to be grateful. When the bottles were on the table and they were both sat comfortably as could be, for he was still incredibly nervous, Scott offered him a cigarette from the lithe silver case. It seemed his pockets would have been great pickings for any thief, but he could not imagine anybody wanted to steal from him.

        'So what can you do?’ He asked him again, cigarette lit between his lips and match extended to the other, he fumbled for a moment and leaned in to light the end. Scott shook it out and dropped it in the ashtray as Joseph’s mind whirled with adjectives best to describe the man sitting in front of him. He was being looked at questioningly and he was almost certain Scott thought him some kind of brain-dead fool.

        'I can’t do anything,’ He offered, licking his lips and wetting his suddenly-dry mouth with the champagne; Scott looked on as if waiting for some genius to spill through, 'though, I can pretend to be somebody that can.'

        He stared, incredulous, and then laughed, hand slapping at the table and sending little drops of champagne flowing over the side of his glass. Joseph laughed along with him out of courtesy and embarrassment, for what else could he say? His city skills were lacking greatly and he could only assume that making some decent Southern cuisine would only get him so far in general, and certainly nowhere with Scott—unless he had a peculiar love for a man that could fatten him up to Southern acceptability. He highly doubted it, though it would have been a nice surprise. Scott took a long drag on the cigarette, tapping the table as he did to keep the other’s attention on him—not that it was going anywhere—and hummed.

        'Y'know, kid, with that attitude you could get places here, and with the right kinda people, too, if you know what he mean.'

        Joseph didn't know what he meant and he told him so with a shake of the head. Scott leaned in, voice low and as he did Joseph took the first drag of the cigarette that he had forgotten about, it had been burning away between his fingers.

        'Joey, sometimes a good guy's gotta do bad things to keep the peace, you know? Just like all these coppers here, they're turning a blind eye to everything, some are indulging themselves. What do you think would happen if this whole town was dry?' Joseph opened his mouth to reply, but Scott spoke, cutting him off, before he had the chance, 'People’d be going crazy. That's what. It's like taking away their clean water, they just can't function without it, and why should they? You know? How I see it is that it's people's right to get tanked if they want to. Right?'

        There wasn't much he could say to that. He was right, in a way, but for a second or two he hadn't quite realised what he'd been told. Scott was one of _them_. Splashed across the front pages caught with crates and crates bootlegged liquor, for watering the town's bars and people's homes, and now he was inviting him into the loop. His poker face was incredible, far better than his own as Joseph sat there with mouth open like a suffocating goldfish and Scott with the faintest of smiles on his face. No wonder he was rich, filthy rich and charming to boot. With all his talking and all his enthusiasm he began to wonder just how old he was and just what it was he was doing.

        'Do you run it all then?' Joseph asked, voice hushed.

        'Put it this way, kid, half this town'd be outta business and half its people starving or on the street if it weren't for me and that dog called liquor.’ He didn't bother lowering his voice now, it seemed the entire place was in on it, and how could they not be? Each person had a glass in their hand, alcohol coursing through their veins and some with the bleary-red eyes that accompanied it all. It was all very exciting, the idea that he was sitting opposite what he supposed one would call a _mobster_ , the very people his family had explicitly warned him about. He felt like he’d gotten into his father's special box and managed to steal a cigar without his noticing, filled with a sense of childlike glee born of the mischief of doing exactly what he was told not to. Oh, how his poor mother would be if she knew.

        Gathering some courage he spoke up, crushing the cigarette out, the soft spirals of smoke rising to the ceiling and dying before ever reaching it. Joseph spoke teasingly,

        'Do you tell all the newcomers that you're a criminal?'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, used to be in first person, forgive any dumb mistakes.  
> Click end notes for character reference.

The blond was quiet in response and his eyes were narrowed at the red-haired boy across from him, it seemed the air had gone serious then and he immediately regretted his words, but Burke scoffed and shook his head, 'Only the ones he wanna hire.'

              He could have said that he wasn't shocked, that he’d expected it, but he hadn't. What use did a bootlegger have for a struggling writer? Maybe it was the obvious need for money that made him appealing, or maybe it was just that obvious that he was already willing to do whatever was asked of him. Just because it was Scott Burke.

              He smiled and stood himself up while slipping a thick, expensive-looking business card across the table to Joseph, who looked down at it curiously. When he looked back up he had taken the bottle of whiskey in one hand and, in the other, a new cigarette rested between his fingers. He patted Joseph's shoulder.

              'Drink up, kid,’ He said it almost reassuringly, especially paired with the hand on his shoulder, 'never know when you might get another chance.' And with that he was wandering back through the tables, weaving past adoring fans, just like myself, and to his friends. Joseph had barely time to breathe before he was drinking the champagne left for him. Already he could feel it swirling around his brain, making everything tingle from the tips of his toes to the palms of his hands. He did not finish the champagne quickly, but he sat, savouring the slightly bitter taste of it on his tongue, drinking and watching Scott be Scott.

              By the time the bottle was finished he was swimming through the smoky air towards the door and Gisele met him outside as he found himself leaning against the store next door to clear his vision. He could feel the alcohol threatening to come back up but staved it off as she wrapped an arm around his waist, bottles clinking together in her bag. He laughed at her audacity as they stumbled along, her supporting most of his weight.

              She took him home with her that night for he was too drunk to cross the town alone or with her supporting him, she lived nearer to the club than he did. Gisele's family did not help her, she had not spoken of them since he had known her and he had never met them. Her room was the attic of a house, it was cosy. Her clothes were draped over partitions, draped over wooden beams, draped over chairs and tables, and the entire place seemed to have absorbed the smell of her perfume, he doubt she even needed to use it any more for the amount that lingered in the air. Gisele set him in her bed and he laughed the laugh of a drunken man, a man about to be plied with more alcohol; she had bottles outlining the room, he would have wagered most were full.

              They drank more from then, one bottle each until the night blurred into the day and he had already forgotten half of what had happened earlier in the night. He slept in her bed, but he did not sleep with her. She was not interested in him, he had shown his affections to her once and she had shot him down faster than his father could shoot a trespasser on their land; a cruel laugh and a pat on the hand had been his consolation. He’d not minded so much, it had hurt his pride but he didn’t know who he was trying to kid, she was taller than him and far too pretty to even consider the idea. Joseph wagered that she was consorting with somebody else already, and had eyes for another, but he didn’t care to ask for she did not care to tell.

              She woke him with a glass of water and a light slap to the face and informed him it was already mid-afternoon and a letter had arrived for him. The second part of her statement did not register in his mind for some time as he did not think she had meant it had come for him, really come for him. He groaned and took the water and she slapped his chest with the letter, letting it drop into his lap.

              The handwriting was tall and curved, very neat, the paper heavy and when he tore it open it made the most satisfying sound of any letter he had ever received. Inside was no letter, though, just a slip of paper with a short note reading _“Dear Joseph, I enjoyed your company. He hope to see you soon. Scott Burke.”_ It was enough to jog his memory. He had sat with him and spoken to him and _touched_ him! He had to go to him immediately. Gisele would not let him up and leave just like that.

              She made him get up slowly, she took him home, she made him wash and she made him eat, for there had already been many days where he had forgotten to do one, or all, of those things. He was glad that she made him clean himself up, though, his hair was longer than most men's at the time, already past shoulder length, and he had tied it up, but over the night and while he had slept it had all fallen here and there, matted and knotted itself. His clothes smelled like a musty attic still, tainted with women’s perfume. He wanted to look good for Scott Burke, and Gisele helped him, as she always did. He appreciated her already and figured he’d probably have starved to death were it not for her constant reminders.

              When he had crawled into Chicago he did not know anyone, he had simply come with a suitcase and sat himself down in any old diner to get a cup of coffee—it was the one thing she did not need to remind him to have. He was minding his own business when he smelled her perfume, it hung around like a thick cloud and for once it didn't make him feel sick, perhaps mingled with the car fumes and the scents of food and coffee it was bearable. She had leaned over his shoulder and spoken to him, a short, sharp phrase in French, and he hadn't been listening, but replied with a short Quoi?Turns out she'd been reading his letter home over his shoulder. He’d like to say that she barely left his side after that, but it was he that stuck close to her. She knew Chicago like the back of her hand, she knew the people, the streets, the bars, the good guys and the bad guys, and more importantly, she knew how to make money.

              Gisele had told him all about Scott Burke and his merry men, but in general terms. He figured he would never meet them anyway. She'd told him how pretty he was, how charming, and when he saw Scott for the first time outside of the Jones Club he did not put two and two together. He didn't know it was him, but he was already in love—sort of. The love a writer has for his muse, for his tools, nothing out of the ordinary, though he told Gisele about him. She was cruel, teasing him more than any of his family ever had, though it was in jest he did begin to question himself and his thoughts about the man. She let up and he forgot soon enough, she had more important things to talk about the next week.

              He clutched the business card in his hand. Scott's name was printed on the front and an address and phone number on the back. He didn't want to call, calling was too informal and the hotel too noisy for what he assumed Scott wanted to talk to him about and what he wanted to talk to him about. He licked his lips as he entered the lobby of The Drake and had the man at the desk direct him to where he needed to be. It was a brilliantly posh hotel, better than anything he had ever had the privilege of staying in.

              He sighed and knocked on the door. He was let in by a man he didn't recognise and directed to a seat, he was offered a drink which he gladly accepted and necked back before the man had even turned himself away. It took ten minutes for Scott to call him in, or at least for the man to tell him so. When he stood he felt his stomach drop to the floor and his head spin with the strong, unknown alcohol he’d been given.

              'Mr. Burke,’ He greeted with a small nod, waiting to be offered a seat, ‘you—you said you wanted to hire him.'

              After thinking about it he had realised that he did need money, he did need security and what better excuse did he have to spend as much time as he could with this blonde Adonis? Despite the warnings given to him he was still fascinated by him, even if it was just for the way he looked so far—well, and the fact that he seemed like a justified criminal, he seemed as if he had a _reason_ for what he was doing, and whether or not that was true was something he wanted to find out. He still seemed the God he thought of him as. He glittered like a star had been torn from the sky and placed in front of him, he was the North Star, guiding Joseph to him, hauling him in. When Scott finally spoke and offered him a seat he took the offer and sat himself down. The wood in the room was dark, polished, the chair he sat in plush and warm, moulded around his buttocks. Obviously Scott liked his people to be comfortable, he liked to show off his wealth. Joseph let his fingers press into the fabric that covered the arms before looking up at Scott.

              'This job might be dangerous you know. I don’t want to trick you into anything.' His smile was sickly sweet and his voice like honey, each word dripping with faux affection. 'But the money is good, and I can promise you’ll never be scraping by again while you work for him.'

              'Oh, yeah, dangerous…’ He muttered in reply, repeating Scott's words, and he looked down at the table then back at him. It would be nice not to scrape by, he knew that, but danger? 'What sort of danger, I mean, I'm not very seasoned,’ He wasn't in the war or anything, don't know much about fighting. ‘I suppose I'm a good liar, though.'

              He went on for a little longer than he had expected to, his nerves still acting up. He was a timid man by nature—perfect for the solitude that being a writer entailed—and Scott Burke made him feel like he was back in school, the priest behind his desk looking at him over the top of his glasses, him being in trouble. Though, in this case, he felt more special than under interrogation, Scott had courted him, given him alcohol, soft smiles, sat with him for hours and offered him a job. Gisele would be pleased.

              'What's the likeliness of me dying?' Joseph muttered cautiously, he asked for he that knew scraping by would not work forever. 

              Letting out a laugh, Scott shook his head. 'You won’t die. Not unless you kill yourself,’ He assured him gently. 'I mostly mean you might get arrested, possibly roughed up by people who wanted to mess with him, and there's a lot of those, kid, but you’ve been roughed up before, right?’ He was teasing, already knowing that Joseph had definitely seen the wrong side of a fist since his arrival. 'Of course I’ll try and keep you on the easy jobs at first. I like you Joey, I don’t want anything to happen to you. So what d'ya say? I need your answer now, a lot of people would kill for a job like this. All that drama is just the stuff of stories.'

              Well Joseph certainly wasn’t planning on killing himself any time soon, so that was off the table. He trusted in Scott's words, perhaps it was a mix of the angelic face and smooth voice, or just that he seemed so very _nice,_ but he trusted him enough to nod and agree with him. He had been _roughed up_ , his face still showed the dying bruise. He watched Scott carefully and a smile crossed that charming face.

              To give his answer right away was awfully hard, he wanted to think about it, to weigh the pros and cons, to ask questions and to really find out about this Scott Burke, investigate, but instead he nodded, blurting out his answer before his brain could really register what his over-excited mouth had done,

               ‘Yes.’ He froze slightly, hand on his mouth and he cleared his throat, ‘I mean, yes, please, I would like to work for you, I do need the money and.. I suppose it seems exciting.’

              He’d heard many stories about these people and thus far none of them seemed to be true. The man in front of him seemed nice, the man that stood outside the door and the others that flitted between the rooms of Scott's suite all seemed well-to-do enough for him. ‘So. What do I have to do? Will I have to hurt anyone?’

              His previously relaxed body tensed slightly and Scott slipped his hand into his pocket to pull out the cigarette case again, and just like before he offered one to Joseph who accepted the cigarette and the match. He had never smoked back home but Chicago had brought it out of him, the need for nicotine, he blamed Gisele.

              'Remember, Joey,’ He said, looking as if he’d been asked something he didn't want to answer, Joseph had thought it was a simple question, 'Sometimes good people have to do bad things.'

              For a little while he sat, thinking on what Scott had said, he thought on the war passed and how good men had done horrible things, and how those good men had died. He wondered if he would be a good man doing horrible things and dying for it, or if he would do horrible things and be forced to live with the guilt. He had been in a little place with Gisele, they'd been drinking, the room small, smoky, dark and a man had turned, a table had gone flying and two others in farmer's flat caps had pinned him to the floor and talked him down. He hadn't known what he was doing, he thought he was in the trenches again, he was barely forty. Mad with guilt.

              He was not stronger than that man, but he felt he was sounder of mind than that poor fellow had ever been. He thought he could handle it and so he simply nodded in reply, shot a sheepish smile his way and sort of squirmed in his seat. Another man entered the room but did not acknowledge him, nodded at Scott, and took a glass from the corner and poured himself a drink.

              'So what am I doing?’ He asked him, tongue darting across his lips as he caught the man drinking in the corner of his eye. Scott pressed his fingers together against his lips, like a church steeple, and with his eyes on his desk he seemed to think on Joseph's question. He'd already mentioned that he’d be doing something easy. Scott shook his head and stood up from his seat, Joseph promptly followed suit, and the blond laughed, muttering something about country boys.

              'Nothing at the moment. But I'm glad that I have your trust, Joey. When he need you I'll send for you. It will be exciting, I promise. I’ll also promise to keep your pockets full.'

              Shrugging softly Scott waved a hand at the well-built man who had let him into the hotel room and a drink was deposited at his desk. 'All you'll do is run errands really. Take orders, make deliveries, get payments. Oh and they do some good will operations as well. But those are near and dear to my heart so you might not be on those for a while,’ He explained before taking a drink of the wine that had been handed to him.

              'Does that sound reasonable enough? The worst that’ll happen is you get arrested for looking suspicious. But with your face, I don’t think anyone will think you’re doing anything wrong.' That must have been how Scott got away with his business. He didn’t look like a criminal, much less a mob boss.

              He watched the man bring Scott his drink and he said nothing, only sat in silence as things were explained to him. He watched the drink with a slight jealousy, he wanted one to calm his jittering nerves but he wouldn't ask, not yet comfortable enough with him. It all sounded reasonable, but that was just it, it was _reasonable,_ it wasn't exciting, it wasn't fun. It was a job, and at the end of the day he realised that he would have to remember that. It was a job and nothing more. He nodded enthusiastically, though mentally scolded himself for it. He didn't want to come across as an eager puppy, but he feared that was already his image.

              'Yes, yes, it sounds reasonable, it sounds fine,’ He gave him another grin. He could see the look of triumph on the man's face and it was somewhat disconcerting. He didn't know why he would be so very happy about their joining forces, but he was glad that Scott was glad. After all, he almost desperately wanted Scott to like him, and he wanted Scott to value him. Maybe he wanted to be more than just a “member of the team”, someday, perhaps, he might end up as more than a delivery boy.

              'So when, uh, when would I start? Because, um, I, I don't know, I've never driven in a city, in Chicago. I don't know his way around yet. But, you know, it's fine, I'll learn,’ He grinned, clutching his hat in his hands, in his lap, tongue darting over his lips again. He was waiting for something, he didn't know what. To be offered a drink, dinner, to be dismissed, something, he didn't know, but then he paused, biting into his lip, 'What's the pay then?'

              'You'll get enough to live on for now, more than enough, maybe, you'll have pocket money.'

              He came round his desk and patted his shoulder as he did in the club and then made to the door, speaking as he went. 'René will show you out.'


	3. Chapter 3

              Tony lashed out, his closed fist colliding with the man's jaw and he cried out, stumbling back into the house. Joseph had never thought he would be able to stand seeing Tony angry, he seemed so nice and so sweet, this was something all-together different. He closed the front door behind them both and followed him into the house where the man scrambled for something to defend himself with, but he was too slow and Tony had his own weapon in hand. He’d only ever seen the police with batons, but this was different, ever so slightly, it looked heavy, and Joseph later found out it was leaded all the way through. He grasped the man by the hair and dragged him to a seat, forcing him into it—all of this was done with a strange sort of serenity—and they both stood in front of him.

              'We gave you an extra day the first time, and then the second, and then the third, Mr Fry, if they can trust you to be on time even once how can they trust that you'll even pay?' Tony's voice was low and smooth, when he'd spoken to him it was excited and cheery, this was far more sensual. 'Joey, hold his hand, pull him arm straight.'

              It took Joseph a little while to realise that Tony had been talking to him, and as soon as he came to his senses he did as he was told, carefully setting his hat on the table first. He held Mr Fry's hand in both of his own, he pulled his arm straight out and pressed his palm to a small table. He was squirming and trying to yank his hand free but it was of no use, it was in such a position that it was almost impossible.

              'Please, please, I'll have it tomorrow, other people, Tony, other people they don't pay up on time and, please.'

              He rose the stick into the air and it came crashing down onto the other's forearm. He had never seena man's arm being crushed, and he could only imagine that not many had. The round-faced man's skin split as the bone broke through it, Joseph heard it crack and not even his scream drowned out the sound of it. It seemed too easy, like breaking the breaking of a stick over one's knee, crackling as the bone split in half, the dropping of marbles on concrete. He shuddered, licked his lips and glanced up at Tony. Tony let the stick press into the man's arm and he squirmed in the chair, screeching, but Mr Fry didn't move to stop him, afraid of the consequences. As Joseph held his hand down—and now without any need to—he looked at his arm. He watched, for just a moment, the blood splatter out onto the floor and onto his shoe. All dark, red and thick, drop after drop. He turned away slightly after Fry's wailing broke the trance he had fallen into, and Tony stepped away from him.

              He let go and the man began to cradle his now broken arm, Tony standing back to watch him in his pain. As he stared Tony moved to the corner and picked up a photograph, the man with a woman and two children, one boy, approximately seven, and one girl, approximately three, and he took it out of the frame and held it in front of Mr Fry's face.

              'You see here? This lovely family of yours? If they don't have that money tomorrow, by nine o'clock in the morning, no later, plus an extra fifty dollars for our trouble, you won't see that lovely family ever again. Do I make himself clear?'

              There was something beautiful about the way Tony seemed not to care about the blood stains he had tracked across the man's floor, how he didn't care about the man's snivelling and wailing. To him, to both of them, the rules were concrete. Pay up or be punished.

              The entire time he had been silent and he remained so now, he did not want to believe that Tony could be so cruel as to really hurt a woman and her young children but there were a lot of things that he didn't know. The man nodded and Tony turned to pick up his hat.

              'We'll be back in the morning,' Tony said, and then they left the house, wiping our feet on the doormat on the way out. They left red smears behind them and a sobbing man. He felt a surge inside himself, a surge that made him feel powerful, the shiver of hairs standing on the back of his neck heavily masked the creep of guilt.

              There was a silence around them for a little while and he did not ask where they were next headed, but it soon became clear as the fancy hotel came into view. They stopped outside, let another man—though no older than sixteen—park the car and made their way to Scott's floor. He was not seeing anybody, his office was empty and him behind the desk but he made them wait nonetheless, perhaps to assert his power, remind them who was boss. When they were called in Tony set the money down on the desk in front of him.

              'Thank you, Tony, you can take the rest of the day and night off. I may be drinking in the Jones' club later on if you'd, both of you, like to join him.'

              'Thank you, Sir,' Tony said, tongue sliding over his lips, 'Mr Fry did not pay up again, they gave him a warning.'

              Scott nodded slowly, his finger at his lips, pressed against them, 'He knows of the consequences if I do not have the money in the morning?'

              'Yes, sir.'

              'Good. I'm glad to see that you are taking your job seriously. Joey, how did you like your first day?'

              He was surprised that Scott had spoken to him, but he smiled and nodded, 'Yes, it was good, thank you, very mild. Tony is a nice man to spend the day with.'

              'The nights too, I'm sure.' Scott said with a laugh, looking between the both of them. There was a glint in his eye that Joseph could not pinpoint, but Scott took the leather wallet from the table, flicked through the money and, satisfied, put it in a drawer and locked it.

              'Thank you, gentlemen, you may go. I hope to see you later this evening. I am dining from eight, on the floor from eleven.’ He bowed his head and went back to looking at letters and they both left.

              Even though he had just spoken to Scott his throat was tight and his mouth dry, he felt like he hadn't spoken in weeks. The image of the man's face, contorted in ugly pain, his blood on the floor, the bone through the skin, he was unsure of whether it haunted him or excited him. He could smell Fry's blood as if it had been absorbed into his clothes. Tony patted him on the shoulder then, tearing him from his thoughts and he smiled at him, giving his hair a light tug.

              'I'll see you later, yes, Joey?'

              'Yes, maybe. Yes.'

              'No, no, not maybe. You'll come. We'll celebrate your first day,' Tony said with a smile. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crisp, green note and handed it to him. 'Buy yourself a new suit.'

              With that comment he left Joseph standing in the hallway, watching his retreating back. They had said goodbye and Joseph thought it might be awkward if he went walking in the same direction, so he hovered for a while, enjoying the mediocre paintings on the walls as best as he could. When he was certain Tony would at least be in the hotel lobby he left. Everything had taken on a new shine, as if were traumatised but rather than having a dark cloud over his head it felt like the sun itself was following him. Everything was lit up with a strangely comforting orange glow. Something inside of him had changed.

              Joseph didn't know if it was because his day had gone well, or because he had seen such an act of violence. He didn't know if he had liked it or if he was simply holding back any real trauma. He thought on that as he walked through the nippy streets of Chicago, he was looking at the streets but not really seeing them. People flittered to and fro around him and he continued on his way home, Joseph didn't know what they were doing and he didn't much care, the sky was darkening and he was going home to ready himself for another night on the town.

              He had a note in his pocket and he was to buy a new suit. There were so many choices! Joseph stopped in the street and looked into a window and then behind him. It wasn't hard to locate a store that would make a lovely suit in those days. It didn't take him particularly long to find one that he liked the look of and go on inside. He was nervous but the man that owned the store was nice enough, he measured and chalked and tacked together and told him to come back in a few hours as it would most certainly be done by then.

              It was nice, it was black and smooth, the lining was of satin and nothing was worn. The shirt was crisp and white and he had never felt as good in anything before. He finally felt as if he were doing something with myself, succeeding. He left the store in his new suit, old one in a paper bag soon dumped into a trash can on the pavement, he had no need for that suit anymore! Though he felt a little guilty for just leaving it, as if saying goodbye to a person that had stuck so closely to him, always been loyal, without more than a note.

              Walking through Chicago like this—despite the lack of money in his pocket that seemed to burn through the clothing—he felt like he had reached a new level of personal achievement. He was in a brand new suit, walking the streets of a large, thriving metropolis and on his way to drink an illegal substance in one of the most exclusive clubs in the world. When he arrived he was greeted with an unusual kindness, a kindness that had not been extended to him the first time he had turned up at the door with Gisele. Everything was better now. Incredibly they let him in without even asking his name, leaving others behind him standing in the street, though he did not know if it was the suit, the new air of confidence or if Tony or Scott had alerted them to his attendance.

              He tapped his fingers over the dark wood panelling as he entered the club, glee washing over him at the sight of what his new life could entail. He still wanted to write but perhaps it would take a back seat, or perhaps he could write about this. He heard Tony before he spotted him, standing over a table, his empty seat behind him, talking loudly with large, exaggerated gestures. Marilla and Ernest, Christophe and Gisele, too, were laughing with him, as well as others he had never met. He made his way over and was greeted with a loud shout of his name and a tight embrace from Joey—he would wager that Tony had had plenty to drink by now. He couldn't see Scott anywhere and, looking at the clock, realised it was only half past nine, he would be joining them eventually and Joseph decided it better not ask after him.

              'Joey, Joey, the newest addition to our team!' Tony said with a grin. He looked at Gisele, unaware that she had been a part of their team, too. She looked a little worried at his being there, but he returned her questioning look with a smile. 'Joey, come, look. Let me introduce you to everybody else.'

              Tony cleared his throat and began, first motioning to the pretty, dark-haired and pale-skinned man on his left, 'This is Monty.' Then to the large man beside him, 'And Benny, they work very closely with Scott.' Beside him was a thin man, with white skin and brown hair, a look of mild worry on his face, 'And this is Johnny, they told you about him, remember, he lives upstairs.’ Joseph nodded, he remembered hearing about him and now the worry made sense. 'And Francis, the calmest of us all, René, the cynic with the bottle in his hand, and Mary, the pretty blonde.' Mary definitely did not look as if she belonged there. Her hair was thick and piled around her head in braids, it was obvious that it was very long. She was holding Christophe's hand on the table and Gisele was avoiding looking at either of them.

              Tony passed a glass of champagne to him and suggested a toast to his first complete day, and they drank to it before all going back to the conversations that his arrival had interrupted. As he watched them all sink back into their comfortable talk Gisele came to him and pulled him aside. Her voice was hushed as she spoke, as not to be overheard—though with the band playing it was unlikely.

              'Joey, you're workingfor them?'

              'Yes, why? They pay well,’ he responded to her, confused by her worry.

              'What did you do today, what happened?'

              'What do you mean “what happened”?'

              'I mean what did you do, what did he tell you to do?'

              He paused to listen to her but pressed his lips together, looking away in slight annoyance, 'Nothing. We just collected money and delivered the liquor.'

              She looked at him through squinted eyes as if to say that she didn't believe him. He glanced down for a moment. He had cleaned his shoes and he had changed his suit, there were no remnants of blood and he doubted that Tony would have told them over drinks. Unless Gisele knew Mr Fry which, considering he wasn't a very nice man, was unlikely, she shouldn't have known.

              'Fine,' she finally said, giving his chest a light smack, 'but don't you go doing anything stupid, you hear me?'

              He appreciated her concern but he felt it was unnecessary. He was more than capable of taking care of himself and he did not need Gisele doing it for him; he told her as much and her face fell somewhat, but she said nothing else and turned back to the group. They spoke for some hours and when Scott finally joined them it was closer to midnight than to eleven, though that was all right for him as early mornings were his choosing. If he wanted to take the meeting at nine o'clock then so be it, but if he didn't then he wouldn't even dream of it. When Scott walked in it was like a breath of fresh air, he sauntered down the stairs towards them with all the grace of royalty, of a prince, he shone under the glittering lights and yet he seemed to be the only one to notice—though René fell silent each time Scott opened his mouth.

              As they sat and drank, sipping at the champagne—for he still wouldn't drink the strong liquors that Scott enjoyed—Scott spoke in his Chicago drawl to those around him who responded in their own drawls, Benny in his thick Irish accent, Tony in his Italian, the rest American or close enough. He did not participate in the conversation he was too busy watching the man on stage. He crooned, his voice deep as it echoed around the place, a smooth sound, no notes missed, no words stumbled over. He was perfect, the talk of the town for the entire week leading up to his début performance. It was his picture that had sent Chicago into a frenzy, plastered around for all to see and his how the ladies had worked themselves into a frenzy.

              His name was Duncan, he was a big-shot in England and had crossed the pond to try his luck amongst the Americans. So far, so good, he thought. Though great at what he did, each time Scott looked at him he could tell he wanted him for something else, he wanted to do business, to have the man work for him just as Benny did—muscle. Duncan looked like a charming man and who better to put you in hospital than a man that was polite while he did it?

              He thought he knew Scott well enough by now that he could guess that's what he'd be thinking. He’d learned about him through Tony, mostly that night, he’d had little contact with the others so far. He wasn't quite in the inner circle yet, he could sit with them in the club but he wasn't invited for dinner. Collect and deliver, that's all he did, but he wanted to do more, writing a book about a delivery boy wasn't much fun, wasn't fulfilling, and it certainly wasn't going to sell. He continued to watch this crooning, young singer as he wooed the ladies and had the men tapping their feet, the band seemed to enjoy him and the the band. He wagered he would write about him, too, and though he wasn't as alluring as Scott there was something there.


	4. Chapter 4

              When he got home he sat down and wrote, and he really wrote, he hadn't written so much in one sitting in a long time. He wrote about Scott and how he had been charmed by him, how infatuated he was with him—or maybe just the idea of him that still sat embedded in his mind. He wrote about their meeting, ungracefully typing it up on the worn typewriter he had lugged from home. From his hair to his fingernails to his office, the hats and coats on the stand in the left corner, and his choice of cigarettes, he wrote about it all and what it all might mean, though it was all nonsense, he had nothing to do with it. He thought he might write an entire book about him. He kept the pages—he'd written thirteen of them—in the top drawer of his desk. He didn't move until he’d written everything that he had to and when he had he sat back in the chair and sighed a sigh of contentment.

              He had not seen Gisele all day and so her arrival at his front door was unexpected, though he was glad. He led her up to his room, though she already knew where it was having been there multiple times, and she sat down on the bed. Neither of them spoke for a little while, him back in his chair at the desk and her looking at his back, and then she huffed.

              'Come on, Joey. Let's get dinner. You've got to tell me all about Mister Burke.'

              He gave a dry smile, staring at the wall and then he nodded, 'Yes, okay, dinner sounds good.'

              Dinner with Gisele was almost always an interesting experience, she had hundreds of stories about Chicago and its night-life. She often told him of her adventures, the men that courted her not knowing where she had really come from, men with money and status. She prowled the clubs where the rich men seemed to live, where the rich men burned their money away on pretty girls—and boys—until the sun rose.

              He learned why she had been in that specific diner the first time they had met. _She was in love_. He had noticed this other man too, but more in passing than in any real interest in him. She told him his name was Christophe and as soon as she said it her body seemed to melt. Gisele told him that they had arrived just weeks apart, and he had been her first friend. Christophe was Italian. She had arrived in Chicago from her homeland of France without a penny to her name and this place had been the first she had found. Christophe, she told Joseph quietly, had spoken to her as if he'd known her for years, gave her some free coffee and let her sit there all day.

              She was cut off soon enough by a man bursting through the door, there was a cacophony of shouts, kisses and embraces, and an overall sense of glee. Gisele and Joseph, regretfully, were not involved in their joyous celebration and turned ourselves away, it was not polite to stare, after all. But the man that had come into the diner so brilliantly sat himself down beside Joseph and threw a strong arm around his shoulders, Gisele jerked as if he'd kicked her under the table. He rolled his eyes and she groaned as if it were an irritatingly familiar dance. Then he introduced himself,

              'My, where are my manners?’ He said to him, other hand clapping him on the chest, 'I'm Tony. Tony Toretta.'

              The name was nice, the writer inside Joseph liked the alliteration, the way it seemed to have its own little beat. Tony was a stand-up guy from Venice, and as they sat in that place, the sky darkening and the coffee cups emptying and refilling, he spoke of his home with a great sense of nostalgia.

              'Ah, little Joey,’ He said, though he was almost certain he was no more than a few years older than he was, 'Little Joey, one day you must visit Venice, it is beautiful, with clean, clear water, and little boats to take you wherever you want to go,’ He smiled, as it seemed like a lovely place to live. 'My mama and papa would welcome you with open arms, you know, they are so welcoming to everybody. And my Mama, she makes the most beautiful bread you have ever tasted.'

              'Why did you come here then?' Joseph asked, eyes on Tony, and when Tony looked at him he gave a little smile; a small twitch of his lips that would soon be signature to him.

              'Why did you?' His eyebrows raised as he looked back at him, tutting quietly. But he laughed, he had a nice voice, a nice laugh, a rumble in his throat. It was contagious, and Joseph laughed with him. All the tips of Tony's fingers pressed together—Joey had noticed already that he spoke with his hands more often than not, a trait of the Italian, he assumed, 'For the money.'

              Joseph had come to Chicago for the opportunity and out of simple curiosity, not only for money, but he figured that Tony had come for the same reasons so he didn't correct him or ask about it. Tony sank into his fourth espresso for a moment before jerking up as if he'd been shocked with a cattle prod, and his hand tapped at the table, demanding attention.

              'Ah, yes, yes, I remember now,’ He started, 'I came here, not to see Chrissie, to see you, Joey. Scott told me you would be here, they are working together now, you and him.'

              Joseph couldn't help but be mildly surprised that he knew Scott, 'So what to do you do?'

              'Ah, simple, you know, collect and deliver, starting easy, you know?'

              'Isn't that a little dull?’ He asked, not meaning to cause offence, and the other man shook his head and finished his espresso.

              'The heart wants what the heart wants,’ He laughed and squeezed his shoulder again before standing up, 'Anymore and it starts to get dangerous, I don't want to get hurt here. But, shush now, I will keep you safe. Okay. I will pick you up in the morning. Get some rest.'

              Joseph and Gisele did not sit there until the morning, not this time, instead he left her to brood into her coffee and returned home. The building was quiet when he returned and little stirred his mind, allowing him to sleep through the rest of the night. Tony arrived at nine o'clock, sharp, and roused him with loud knock after loud knock on the door. Though he had never been a morning person he didn't mind it all too much, that bright and cheery smile woke him nicely. He came into the room and sat on the bed while Joseph poked lazily through the rack of overly-worn clothes.

              'We have a few places to stop off today, Joey,’ He commented, a small, pocket-sized notebook in his hand and a pencil in the other, 'we'll go to the Jones' club first—they're very good customers and very nice people, I think they will like you. Then we'll go to see the others.'

              He nodded in response and picked out something to wear—most of his clothes were fairly similar, aside from one black suit and one purple blazer everything was in neutral, unassuming tones—and looked at Tony. He expected him to stand and allow him to dress but he seemed not to notice him standing there holding these clothes over himself, and so he cleared his throat for his attention. Tony laughed when he saw him with pink creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. With a small wave of his hand the bed creaked and he left the room. He closed the door behind himself and Joseph waited for just a moment to be sure he'd not forgotten anything that might cause him to burst back in; his family had always been somewhat irritated with his “prudishness”, he did not like to dress or undress in front of them, nor did he like to wear clothes that left skin on show—and that was difficult in Louisiana where the air was always humid and even the trees seemed to sweat.

              He looked at himself naked in the mirror. Joseph seemed to be stuck between the awkward lankiness of a boy and the sharper features of a man and had been for some time now. It hardly mattered, he was away from home, had a job, had his own life! He turned away from his reflection and quickly pulled on the dark brown trousers, the off-white shirt and the tweed jacket—earthy, neutral, unassuming—and pulled the door open to head across the hallway to the bathroom. Tony followed him, clapping his hands and telling him to hurry up, which he did; after cleaning his face and brushing his hair back into a low ponytail they were both out of the door and in the car.

              Joseph and his family didn't have a car back home but being inside one was nothing new to him, they just didn't need one, living where they did it was unlikely the wheels would have turned. The van stuttered to live beneath him and Tony drove away from the front of the house. Joseph watched the buildings as they lumbered on by, Tony was talking, though he wasn't talking to Joseph, more talking to himself, talking to the car. He smiled. He enjoyed the sound of Tony's voice beside him, it was comforting; Joseph wasn't really listening to him and, quite frankly, he didn't think that Tony was even speaking in English. When they pulled up to the front of the Jones' club it looked just as inviting in the daytime as it did in with it's night-time glittering lights. He had only been there twice, the club was too expensive for him to go regularly, but he had enjoyed it. Tony turned the van and they drove around to the back of the club, stopped and clambered out.

              A young Latin woman and an African man greeted them at the door, welcoming them in with open arms, 'Tony, Tony, come on in. You and your sweet, little friend.' The woman yelled, her arms were, literally, open, beckoning them into the club. She was not particularly tall and not particularly thin, but she looked soft and had curves that begged to be touched, and touch them the man beside her did. He was dark skinned with white teeth and an impeccable sense of style—which he accredited to his wife—and he was kind, at least he looked kind.

              'I am Marilla Jones,' the woman said to Joseph, 'and this is my husband Ernest. they own this place.' Her smile was warm, she placed her hands on his shoulders and pressed two full kisses onto both of his cheeks and Ernest shook his hand enthusiastically. The index and middle fingers of his free hand were wrapped in gauze and held straight with a splint.

              'Ernest is a clumsy, unlucky man,' Marilla said with a small roll of her eyes as she had noticed Joseph's eyes on his hand.

              'Yes, yes, Rilla, you don't have to tell every person that walks through the door.’ He turned to Joseph with a little smile, voice hushed, 'She won't even let me behind the bar.'

              'Ernest, go and count the money for these young men while they bring the goods inside.'

              Ernest bowed his head in defeat and he went off behind the bar, though not without a small smile on his face. This seemed normal between the both of them so who was he to judge? They were happy. As Ernest counted the money, Marilla guided him back to the van and had him help carry the crates into the club; he wasn't particularly used to physical labour but he helped, Tony and he hauled in crate after crate while she watched on proudly. It didn't take them particularly long to collect and deliver with the Jones', and as they spoke inside over a glass of whiskey each Marilla told them of the empty rooms above the club for rent and of the sweet doctor that had taken residence in one of them. Doctor Johnny Watson, his name was, and as Tony and he left he explained that Watson was one of two doctors that worked with him and for Scott.

              'Though,’ He added, closing the driver’s door of the van and forcing the vehicle into motion, 'it's not usually them that need the doctors, if you know what I mean.' Tony laughed and they were off to destination number two. Deliveries were easy, people had their money ready and it was handed to Tony while he carried in the crates. Two, three, four and five were done in record time, the money was in the leather wallet in Tony's pocket and his arms ached with the effort of carrying the bottles from van to building.

              They trundled along the roads, talking and waving to those that they knew, Tony threw some coins to the poor, young children, little boys and girls diving away from the car to grab them rather than to play in the road and they laughed as they went along. Soon enough they reached their final destination, the man ran poker tournaments from his home and Scott took a cut of all the money that went into the kitty and the man also used some of it to purchase alcohol to sell to those that joined in. Scott took a cut of everything. As they made their way to the door they could hear a person inside, fretting and scuttling, and when he did not answer the door Tony drew back and kicked the door in.

              Tony pressed his lips together and Joseph could see the vein bulging in his neck and the blood pulsing at his temple, Tony's hand rose to his head and he touched at the hat he wore before handing it to Joseph. He took it from him and held it, the hat was heavier than it should have been and for a second he glanced down at it. There were two razorblades sewn into the flap, but he wasn't using this home made weapon. His eyes were on the man at the door and he reached out to shove him inside—Joseph followed obediently. The man was already stuttering, stepping back and away from Tony.

              'Late again, Mr Fry?'

              'No, Tony, no, he swear I'll have it tomorrow.'

              'I'm afraid tomorrow isn't good enough.'

              'Y-you! You ba-bastard Italians!' the man said, 'Coming here and-and threatening me!'


	5. Chapter 5

               Weeks passed with little more to do for Joseph, the same daily routine of collect and deliver, five days a week was beginning to grind on him. Some days there was more to do than on others and Sunday was often free of things to do, Saturday was the day they were paid. Notes and coins in hand they’d spend half of it in the Jones' club by the end of the night.

              Though there had been violence, he had not seen it. He had heard that the police had fished a body out of the river, it had been beaten and bloodied and the water had bloated it beyond recognition, but it was said that one of Monty's friends had gone missing. Monty, when Joseph caught a glance of him, did not seem to be thinking on it, though he wore a simple, black band around his arm to honour the fallen. It was enough for Monty, he didn't seem like a man to cry.

               It was not known who had killed the man and the police, being in the pockets of whoever they were in the pockets of had ruled the death was accidental, but others, Joseph, thought different. Monty thought different. Joseph chose not to ask him about it, they weren't close enough for that yet.

               He couldn’t claim that it was a job that he particularly enjoyed. The pay was not great—though Scott assured Joseph that he’d have “more dough than an entire family could use in a week” eventually. But he enjoyed other things about it. He enjoyed Tony, they were a great pair, he thought, he and Tony had all the work finished by the early afternoon most days and they were allowed to enjoy themselves. They indulged in lazy walks along the river, they watched movie and they sometimes drank in the day. It seemed everybody liked Scott—as much as one can like another man taking your money—especially when it was Tony's smiling face coming to collect. He couldn't complain.

               Unemployment was ripe and he had found himself with a job without even trying, illegal or not. He was getting by on his own, which was more than he could say for a lot of Chicago. Soup kitchens had been opened here and there and the queues were out of the door, the longer he was driving the streets with Tony the worse he felt for having money in his pocket.

               They were making money by the handful and Scott was spending it just as fast. More soup kitchens to keep the unemployed poor on his side, more booze to sell, more booze to drink. As bad as some thought the liquor was it kept people happy and it created jobs—it did many different things, some good and some bad but, to Scott, the most important part was allowing people their choice.

               Joseph and Tony had become close friends over the time he’d worked with him, he was a charming man. His olive skin and dark hair was definitely attractive and he had men and women on his heels almost all of the time, and somehow he kept them all amiable. Joseph had never once heard a bad word about him, it seemed he was pleasant with them all. The women were not angry or jealous and the men were not out to destroy him with their knowledge. They all liked him. He and Joseph had never shared any moments of real passion in their time alone.

               The sun had been shining one afternoon and the weather was warm, Tony had convinced Joseph to join him on a walk when their work was over and, of course, he was more than happy to oblige. It had ended with Joseph’s back against the wooden legs of the recently-build Navy Pier, his lips stinging with Tony’s drying saliva, his pants hanging open and his fingers in Tony’s hair.

               There was never any real passion.

 

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               It was not that Joseph did not think Benny and he would get along, it was more than he thought Benny would have nothing to say to him. He doubted that he did not have better things to do than to spend his evening with a writer come delivery boy, for what could he offer the hardened Irishman that he’d really care for? He was wrong. He and Joseph sat with drink in hand in the emptying hotel bar, Scott at his desk on one of the floor above them, and they sat in relative quiet. Music played quietly around them and Benny turned his chair to Joseph and leaned in, as if about to say something, but he did not. Joseph did.

                ‘So tell me,’ he offered, ‘tell me about Scott Burke.’

                ‘Scott?’ Benny started, his accent thick and so very Irish. ‘Scott’s a nice guy, a good guy, he believes in the good, in the equality of people, and the fairness of them having their rights. But.’

                ‘But?’

                ‘But he is very focused on his goals.’

                ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

               Benny sighed a little bit and took a mouthful of his drink, ‘Scott is a good man, a charming man, but he is absolutely capable of being terrible.’ He licked his lips and finished the glass. He left it on the bar as he stood up and it was swept away by the barman. Joseph watched the glass go, and watched the look on Benny's face. It wasn't even as if he had said anything, he smiled, bid him farewell and left. He could not help but wonder what on earth he had meant by what he had said. He watched his back as he left and he thought about it.

               Scott being terrible was as peculiar as a cat on its back legs. He sat there for another hour alone, thinking on it, wondering what things he could have been done to be named terrible by Benny. Perhaps he had been right upon their first meeting, perhaps he was predisposed for cruelty. Benny, as far as he knew, was hardly an honourable man, much like the rest of them. Scott being terrible. Scott being terrible. He thought. He wondered. His words had always been nice, but were they too nice? Were they passive aggressive or were they manipulative, or were they simply nice?

               Eventually, though, he left the lobby and began to make his way through Chicago's breezy streets. He could hear the music of the Jones' club from where he was and figured they must be having a particularly busy evening. He didn't stop by that night, he thought it about time he spent the evening, and the night, in his own bed, alone and able to actually get some real sleep.

               It had been a very long fortnight and as he settled into bed he glanced at the clock. Ten forty-something post meridian. The sky dark and the air cold, wind making the shutters on the windows clatter, and he soon fell into a gentle slumber. He was used to the silence of the countryside but the noise of the city was comforting too.

               Scott called him in the next day and still the thought of Scott being terrible confused him, plagued him. It was so peculiarly fascinating that he found himself thinking and thinking on it, unable to get the idea of his hidden cruelty out of his mind. Questions buzzed and their voices tittered, laughing, making fun of his naivety, his trust in Scott.

               He stood at the back of the room, hat in his hands, held in front of him as he watched. A man was strapped down to the only chair in the room, the drapes were drawn against the blinding light of. Flecks of dust floated in the room, showing themselves only in the streams of light that bled through the gaps in the drapes, he tried his best to focus on them rather than the man before him. He couldn't look away from him for long as he rose his voice, shouting at the two other men in the room. He heard but didn't listen, Scott had walked into the room. He was as dashing as ever, his suit sparklingly clean, his hair, skin and nails the same, and he came towards Joseph. Scott touched his hands gently and he jumped, the glass over his eyes shattering as he focused on that handsome face. Scott smiled at him and wound an arm around his shoulders,

               'You see, Joey, I care about Chicago, and—aside from the select few—’ He motioned to the man in the chair, 'Chicago cares about me.'

               He'd seen the man before, in Scott's office, he hadn't been in the room with them but he had seen it all happen through a crack in the door. The man had been sitting, smoking a cigarette, and Scott had breezed in, walked straight up to him and tore the cigarette from his mouth then crushed it out in the ashtray on the table. The man had begun to speak but Scott had held up a hand and silenced him.

               'You do not smoke in my office, and do you want to know why?' The man was frozen in his spot, and Scott continued, 'Because I don't want my office smelling like your cheap as shit tobacco.'

               Then the door was closed.

               The kid looked nice the first time Joseph had seen him and he looked nice even in that chair, he didn't look as if he'd done anything wrong, anything out of the ordinary for the business they were in. His eye was swelling up and his jaw bruised, nose bloody, and he looked to Scott for some kind of explanation.

               Joseph turned his head away from the man. 'What did he do?’ he asked quietly. He didn't want to seem weak in front of him, in front of Scott, but this seemed wrong. Very wrong. Scott squeezed at his shoulder, his other hand motioned to the long-haired and cherry-lipped man on the right of the man, 'Monty.’ He said then motioned to the short-haired man on the left, 'And Benny.' The man nodded at him and Scott continued talking as he walked away from him.

               'And this man here, Joey, this man here has tried to sabotage this great business and to destroy all the good which we have flooded this great town with. This man here has tried once before to slice us at the knees, Joey, and we forgave him, and he has tried again. Now he must pay for his actions.’ He turned to Monty and Benny—Monty, he later learned, was a man for hire, and Benny a member of Scott's inner circle with a penchant for violence—and a grin twisted his features. 'Isn't that right boys?'

               Fists swung and he could hear the man's pained cries, he heard the sickening sound of the bones in his face crunching underneath the crippling force of each punch. He was still, silent, eyes more on the area that the man occupied than the man himself, he spat blood to on the floor, it dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin, and Joseph, again, tried not to watch it.

               In the second his eyes closed, stomach squirming somewhat from the sight, a shot rang through the room, not nearly as loud as it should have been. When his eyes opened again Monty had slipped the gun from it's holster and had turned to glance at him. The blood pooled on the floor and Joseph could have laughed, it was all so planned, the position of the chair with the dip in the floor, the blood stayed right there where it should have been. Except, of course, the blood that dripped down onto the man's clothes. Monty hadn't shot him properly, and he could see that he'd done it like that on purpose. The man had a hole through both cheeks—he was as good as dead.

               From where he stood he could see through the hole in his face, he could see the glimmer of the metal in his teeth, it was bad enough that he could see his teeth. They clacked together and then his jaw dropped open, tongue lulling out of his mouth. The blood dribbled out of his mouth again, down his chin and down his neck. It stained his shirt and his trousers.

               With his final breath he spoke, he said Scott's name, as if pleading with him. To Joseph it seemed almost clichéd, like something that would have been written at the end of a book. Scott made a simple motion with his hand and Monty shot him again, gun against his temple. Blood splattered the floor, the wall, Monty. He didn't look as if he cared at all.

               Scott led Joseph from the room by his elbow, into his offices again and he wondered vaguely what they would do with the man's body, it was still daylight after all and they couldn't have corrupted _every_ police officer in town.

               ‘I wanted you to see that, Joey,’ he said, his hand moving from the younger man's elbow to his hand, and he held it in both of his, held it up to his chest, 'because I want you to know what happens to people that try to betray me. And I know that you'd never do that to him but I just wanted you to know, I wanted to be sure that you knew.'

               Joseph was shaken by what he’d seen, he felt it but he didn't know if Scott could see it. He felt as if he was floating rather than walking, only Scott's hands holding onto his keeping him from floating through the ceiling and out. He had only ever seen one person die before and that was his grandfather, it didn't stick in his mind, he had simply drawn his last breath and expired. This was different. So different. He hoped that Scott could not tell, but his own silence was worth a thousand cries.

               'So, Joey,’ He said, leading him to his office again. 'I want you to work a little closer with me, with Monty and Benny.’ Joseph nodded along with him. For as long as he had known Scott, which wasn't very long at all, he had been unable to deny him anything he had asked of him.

               He left the putrid stench of wasted blood and charred flesh behind for the day, leaving the hotel in a daze to find himself something to eat. As he had watched the man die he became painfully aware of the lack of food in his stomach, he didn't know why; it may have been because he had felt the need to throw up or it may simply have been that the entire ordeal made him hungry. He hoped that wasn't the case, though. He headed out into the street and the sun from before the man's death had been hidden by dark, black clouds, and though the rain had begun to fall steadily--it wasn't heavy--the thunder grumbled and yelled hoarse around him, as if right in his ear. It felt like the world was angry with him for witnessing the murder.

               He didn't know if the man had done anything other than what he had been told, but as he walked away from the centre of town he began to think. This man had lived a life just as vivid, just as complex and beautiful as his own, his life had its joyful moments, its own blinding happiness and crippling sadness, it had its worries and its excitement. His mother had always told him that being witness to a crime and doing nothing was just as bad as committing it yourself, and now he felt that. But he was torn between her lined and caring face and Scott's, smooth, cherubic. Hers domineering and his manipulative. He continued to walk.

               The rain did not get much heavier as he did, only coming down as it had before, in wave after wave of clean, cool water. Chicago's rain is cold, he remembered thinking to himself, being surprised as something so common as rain would be different. In Louisiana it was humid most of the time and the rain was warm but still a welcome relief regardless. He remembered how the trees grew in his gardens, the willow hung over the lake, it's tiny leaves floating on the water, he remembered the heady scent of the large roses that were always trimmed though he never saw anybody do it. The crickets chirped in the long grass, and that very same long grass grew through the cracks in the stone. The courtyard was almost always overgrown, only slightly, and he had a feeling his Father liked it that way. He liked to rest there, lying on the edge of the fountain, hand dropped over the side, skimming over the fresh, clean water, wondering how it stayed so clean, wondering how something so fragile as a plant could crack the stones when even he could not.

               His house was made of wood back home, most of it, it was warm and almost always buzzing with his family's conversation, and the wood itself seemed to speak. His entire family would join them for dinner sometimes, even though they all did not get along, his mother, his father, their parents and their siblings, and their siblings' children, and their children. He was fond of his Uncle Forrest with his thick accent and his cardigans, he always had sound advice and he always smelled of cinnamon and the faint twang of cigars, when he died Joseph was devastated—the man had lived through more than an entire army, covered in jagged scars and taut, pink skin from various wounds. He was full of stories.

               Sometimes he slept there in the courtyard, even in the rain, but there was no sleeping in this. He huddled in on himself and picked up the pace, jogging down the streets, kicking up water from his shoes as he went. Most people were huddled inside by now. There was a lot of rain, a lot of thunder and a little lightning, it had turned quickly. A child cried to his right but he heard it only briefly, he looked back but he had run so far past that he could not see where it had come from. When he finally stopped running his face was red where the rain had hit it, making his nose and cheeks flare up, his eyes water and his nose run.

**Author's Note:**

> Scott Burke – Enjolras   
> Remy – Grantaire  
> Antonio “Tony” Toretta – Courfeyrac  
> Johnny – Joly  
> Ernest Jones – Bossuet   
> Marilla Jones – Musichetta   
> Francis – Combeferre  
> Benny – Bahorel  
> Christoph – Marius   
> Gisele Malbranche – Eponine   
> Mary – Cosette  
> Monty – Montparnasse


End file.
